


Touch My Skin to Keep Me Whole

by Leela



Series: Touch My Skin [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: First Time, M/M, Mild Sensation Play, Semen Kink, Touch, kinky kristmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-06
Updated: 2011-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-15 11:21:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leela/pseuds/Leela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Only the <em>first</em> touch is an accident.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch My Skin to Keep Me Whole

**Author's Note:**

  * For [r_grayjoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/r_grayjoy/gifts).



> My thanks to eeyore9990 for the beta and the brainstorming and so very much more.
> 
> This was written for r_grayjoy for [daily_deviant](http://asylums.insanejournal.com/daily_deviant/)'s Kinky Kristmas 2010.
> 
> The title is from the lyrics to 'Mojo Pin', by Jeff Buckley and Gary Lucas (from Jeff Buckley's _Grace_ album).

The first touch is an accident. A brush of my fingers across Snape's bare forearm as I'm taking over babysitting duty from Dawdling Dawlish — useless piece of Thestral shite that he is.

I walk into the front room of the cottage where they've stashed Snape to find him flipping Dawlish a good pair of fingers and Dawlish about to respond with a wand and his usual lack of humour. A quick twirl of my own wand takes care of that impulse right quick.

Bloody hell, even I know better than to hex a Ministerial witness in front of another Auror no matter how provoking the bastard might be.

Not that I care, but it does no one any good at all to let Dawlish work that one out. So I growl, "Put that wand away. I'll have your guts for garters if Snape can't testify because you put him in Mungo's."

"But he—"

Not having the patience for Dawlish's excuses at the best of times — the Ministry has to find a better barrel to scrape its recruits out of — I cut him off and give my wand another twirl for emphasis. "He's a Ministerial witness under our protection. He's also a _former_ —" I spit out the word, wanting to get the taste out of my mouth "—Death Eater and probably knows more hexes, curses, and Dark Magic than you've ever dreamed about. He's wandless, not harmless."

"But—"

" _Constant vigilance_!" I bark at him.

Both Dawlish and Snape flinch so hard that it takes everything I've got not to laugh at them. Merlin, I love it when they react like that.

Before Dawlish can recover, I nod at Snape. "Come on, then. There's dinner from the chippy down the road in the kitchen, and I'm damned if I'm eating it cold."

Snape gives me a curt nod back and pivots on his heel. I follow him out of the room. Part of my attention is on Dawlish, listening to make sure that he Floos out, but the rest is on Snape.

Snape's stalking down the hall as if he's going to be Kissed, robes flaring out behind him. But all I can see is the way his eyes widened and his skin prickled into goosebumps when I touched him.

All I can feel is the softness of his skin and the way the tips of my fingers still tingle with the residue of Dark magic that runs through him.

.:.

I plan the second touch for the next day. Snape is in the library with a coffee in one hand and a book in the other. He's forgone the robes in favour of black jeans and a loose, untucked black shirt. His hair is long enough to veil his expression when he's got his nose in a book.

I drop into the seat next to him. The couch is small enough that our legs touch.

"Don't do that," he snarls without lifting his head or looking at me.

"What? Sit down?"

His only response is a damned unsatisfactory hum, and then, after a second, he takes a deliberate slurp of his coffee. So I let my hand fall onto my thigh and scrape the nail of my little finger over the seam of his jeans.

His hand twitches, and he spills his coffee over himself, the book, and the couch. He raises his head and aims a furious scowl at me. It's less painful and deadly than his curses, but not by much, and I'm both impressed and turned on by it.

"Bastard," Snape hisses. He stands up and turns to throw his cup and book at me before storming out of the room.

 _He's aroused_ , I think, as I watch him leave, _from my touch_. The idea is so unexpected that he's upstairs and locked in his bedroom before I can come up with a response. I decide to let him be and focus on what to do next, and how to deal with my own unexpected and inconvenient erection.

.:.

Three days later, and I'm not much further ahead. Snape still shivers and prickles into goosebumps when I touch him gently and unobtrusively, but much more than that results in a snarling attack.

Which is why I'm standing here, staring at myself in the bathroom mirror, wondering if it's the latest scar that's putting him off. Not that I was ever a good-looking bloke, but... I let the thought trail off as I trace the edges of the dent in my nose. Rosier clipped me a good one before I got him. I should count myself lucky that he didn't take my eye with it, I suppose.

The mirror makes a tutting noise. "Dark magic again?"

"Aye."

"It's not that bad, dearie," the mirror says. "And any young man worth his magic would be proud to be seen with a wizard like you."

My laugh is derisive and aimed at myself, not the mirror. I'm the catch of the season, all right, with my hair going grey and my ever-increasing collection of inerasable scars from fighting Death Eaters and the rest of the hooligans.

"Young men these days." The mirror sighs. "I hardly know what the world's coming to. In my day—"

I walk out before it can get much further and I'm forced to hex it. I'm tired of shopping for mirrors and this one isn't half bad. Jones suggested a Muggle mirror, but what's the fun in having one that doesn't talk back?

.:.

I'm on overnight duty the weekend before the trials start, and the report that's owled to me just before my shift isn't promising. Dawlish and Jones are stationed in the house across the street, and Snape's apparently even jumpier than usual, snapping and sneering at everyone and tossing around barbed insults as if they were Unforgivables. Mothersill, bloody misery that he is, scuttles into the Floo with his tail between his legs as soon as I step out, and he's gone before I can get a single word out.

"Good riddance." Snape crosses his arms over his chest and looks down his nose at me.

There's a challenge in his stance, and I can tell that he's just waiting for me to berate him. So I shrug and offer him the closest thing to a smile I can manage. "I could murder a decent cuppa," I say, walking past him to the door, swinging my arms wide enough to ensure my hand touches his arm. "You up for one?"

Snape mutters something under his breath that's likely an insult, but he follows me anyway, and I count that as a step towards victory.

We're sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea, eating chocolate digestives, and not looking at each other, when Snape finally breaks. He slams his mug onto the table so hard I can hear something crack, and says, "Do you mean it?"

I slouch back in my chair and give him a considering look. His lips are pressed together, the corners drawn down in a way that makes his nose seem even more prominent. His left hand is on the table, the muscles and tendons so tense that they're almost vibrating.

The level of want that rises in me takes my breath away and leaves me speechless. He's halfway to the door when I finally gather enough wits to ask, "Do I mean what?"

Snape halts in place. His arms are down at his sides, his hands are clenched into fists, and his back is ramrod straight. "What you're doing to me. Is it an offer or are you just taking the piss?"

There's a world of pain and expectation in his tone; none of it is anything I want to deal with right now. Not when the tension in the room has ratcheted up, and my prick is reminding me of what it wants.

I get up slowly, making as little noise as I can manage, and approach him as carefully as I would a feral Hippogriff. He stiffens even more, as I approach, one misstep by me away from running.

When I'm right behind him, I reach out and run my hands down his arms, from the shoulders to the wrists, stopping at the cuffs, before I reach bare skin. "I don't take the piss over anything that matters." I bite back the word, _boy_ , having seen from his reaction to Dumbledore how much of a mistake that is.

"I'm going to die," he says, as matter-of-fact as if he's talking about the weather. "Caught between all sides like I am."

I circle his wrists with my forefingers and thumbs, marvelling at how slender and strong they are. "Don't give yourself too many airs. There aren't many of us likely to die of old age and boredom, trapped in a bed layered with one too many hospital charms."

A tremor and a hoarse noise escape his rigid control, and his head falls forward. His hair parts messily, exposing the nape of his neck.

Stepping close enough for him to feel me through his backside, I press my lips against the skin above his shirt collar. He tastes of bitter almonds and butterscotch. "I don't do charity or the unwilling. If you want it, say so. Otherwise, I'll back away, and we'll talk about the upcoming elections or some such rot."

"I'm not _charity_ ," he spits the last word out in clear disgust. Then he pulls himself free and spins around. "And I'm not unwilling."

His kiss is sloppy and unpractised, with too many teeth and too much tongue, and enough passionate desperation to set my blood on fire. I crowd into him, wrapping my arms around his too-skinny body, and start showing him how it's done.

.:.

We take the stairs one at a time, pausing between each for me to shut down the Floo and set Alert Charms, and for both of us to touch and be touched. By the time we make it into his bedroom, the house is better protected than Azkaban, and he's making short huffing noises and unbuttoning my shirt.

No fumbling for Snape. A virgin he might be, and not so long since a teenager, but he's got more self-possession than many wizards twice and thrice his age.

"You're going to fuck me," Snape says, glaring at me. "And next time I'm going to fuck you."

I don't even try to keep the amusement out of my voice. "Are you now?"

"I am." He nods for emphasis before backing away to take off his clothes and get onto his narrow bed.

He's too skinny and a bit knobbly, but he's also got a sinewy strength and a determination not to hide his faded Dark Mark that sends a jolt right through me. Now that it's uncovered, the Dark magic is rousing something in me that I haven't felt since I fucked Dolohov under the Quidditch stands back in school.

I growl and stalk towards him, shedding clothing until I'm as naked as he is. His eyes widen when he sees me and my scars, and I pause to give him a chance to back out, but he doesn't take it. Instead, he parts his legs just enough to hint at what's waiting for me.

"Be damn sure," I say, watching his prick bounce as I straddle his thighs. "There's no going back after this."

His answer is a surprisingly strong roll of his hips and legs, clearly an attempt to send me sprawling on top of him. I'm not going to settle for quick and dirty, though. Not with him being as responsive as he is. As Dark as he is.

I get to my hands and knees and crouch over him, and I nip and lick at whatever parts of him I can reach: his chest, his shoulders, upper arms, and neck. I sway as I do it, leaving a damp trail of precome over his skin.

"Salazar," he hisses and reaches for me, using his grip on my shoulders and his feet as leverage to lift his hips up and try to rut against me. His Mark is pressing against my bicep, and I can fucking feel myself react to it. To distract myself, I move to a kneeling position, regaining the use of my hands and getting that thing off my skin.

His eyes close, his mouth opens on a moan, and he clutches at the covers as his prick slides into place beneath me. He's undulating. A slow, unlubricated glide against my arse that's too damned close to painful, but he doesn't seem to care. I do, though.

Wanting his attention, I lightly drag my nails over his nipples, the bumps of his prominent ribs, and down his stomach. The skin and muscles ripple and flutter beneath my touch, goosebumps spread outwards, his head goes back, and he comes with a sibilant gasp and a splash of semen against my bollocks.

"Oh," he says when he's done, and he gives me a wicked smirk.

 _Not good enough_ , I think. Not if he still has his wits about him.

"I'm going to fuck you now," I growl, and his prick moves under me. I grind down on it, rubbing his come into both of us, and ask, "Lube?"

He grabs an unlabelled jar from his bedside table and tosses it at me. From his self-satisfied expression, I know that this is his. Probably brewed on that contraption he's got set up in the corner.

I shift downwards, settling between his legs, and take a look at what he's got. Nice, full bollocks, a good-sized cock, and a hole that's definitely never been touched. "Pillow."

Ignoring his "Why?" and the way he props himself up on his elbows to watch me, I push a hand under his arse, raise it up, and shove the pillow underneath.

The first touch of my lubed finger to his hole has him dropping back down and spreading his legs wide. He shudders at the second; his prick begins to fill again, and he rotates his hips.

"Hold your legs up and apart," I tell him, and he obeys with more alacrity than I've ever seen from him.

"Don't hurt me," he warns. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips, and I can sense the curse that's building inside him.

"Then you'll not want fucking." I stop moving my finger, leave it resting against the puckered muscle. "Because it's going to hurt until it's so damn good that you can hardly stand it."

There's a pause, and then he pulls his legs up further, and he exhales shakily. I stroke a hand down his flank, and he mutters, "Fuck me, already."

I take my time preparing him, caressing his skin with my free hand, touching everything I can reach except his prick, and he's writhing on my fingers by the time he's ready. His legs are draped over my thighs, because he's given up trying to hold them apart, and he's reaching for me with hands that flex constantly.

And when I enter him, when I push inside that sticky, slick heat, he cries out. A quiet, wordless syllable that claws its way down my spine and grasps at the base of my prick.

Stopping, gritting my teeth, I wait. Poised on the brink until he digs his heels into my lower back and impales himself on me.

"Fuck me," he commands, and this time, because it suits me, I obey.

Grabbing his legs, I pull them over my shoulders and lean down, nearly bending him in two. His arse opens for me, and I thrust slowly in and out as I kiss him. His movements are awkward, but he wraps his arms around my neck, slides his tongue into my mouth, and bucks his hips up to meet me.

And when my prick finds his prostate, he bites both our tongues. There's blood in our mouths when we end the kiss, but I don't let him change his mind. Instead, I drive inside him, deeper and faster, and I slick his right hand, pull it between us, and wrap it around his cock.

"Do it," I tell him. "Wank yourself."

He huffs, but his hand starts moving. Awkwardly at first, until he's tugging in counterpoint to my thrusts. Soon, too soon, need is driving me into him, sparking upwards and outwards from the base of my spine. Snape's movements become jerky, uncoordinated, and he's tugging on my hair.

Something rises up inside me that I don't ever want to name, and I turn my head and mouth at his Dark Mark. My lips tingle. Snape hisses something incomprehensible, yanks on my hair, and presses his forearm into my face.

Before I can do anything, he's pushing down on my prick, getting as much of it into him as he can manage, clenching around it, and pulsing his release over both of us.

He's got triumph in his eyes when he's done, and I know he's thinking that he's managed two orgasms to my none. As if that's something to be proud of. He pulls his arm away from my mouth and stretches lazily, running a hand over his Mark.

A sense of possessiveness sweeps over me. This boy belongs to me, not to a bleeding Dark twat who got his arse handed to him by a toddler. I pull out of him, ignoring his moan, shrug his legs off, and shift positions. With one hand holding that damned arm in place above his head, I grasp my prick and begin tugging, pulling, twisting. Thrusting into my hand, over and over, faster and faster, until I'm coming with a roar all over his face, hair, and forearm.

When I can think, I look down at him. He's licking my semen off his lips. A tremor goes through me at the sight, and my prick manages one last twitching dribble.

"You're not as good as the one I was saving myself for," he says, a flash of pain and sorrow in his eyes, "but you'll do."

"Aye." Bending down, pinning him in place, I use my tongue to swipe a bit of my come from the tip of his nose. "So will you."

~fin~


End file.
